


Chrysalis

by pasiphile



Series: Good Girls Don't [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Adultery, Agency Through Sex, Dubious Consent, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-12
Updated: 2015-12-12
Packaged: 2018-05-06 04:26:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,026
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5402924
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pasiphile/pseuds/pasiphile
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>“Why,” Jim says softly, “are you here.”</i><br/>
<i>Because he didn’t tell me. Because you look at me. Because I should be scared but I’m not.</i></p><p>Molly comes into her own, with help of - or despite of - the men in her life.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Chrysalis

**Author's Note:**

> Follow-up to Good Girls Don't
> 
> Warnings for adultery, questionable moral choices, slut shaming, and one scene that's seriously dubious in terms of consent and can be read as noncon.
> 
> Thank you to mumblingsage for the beta!

**I**

 

_She fucks the person she thinks is Jim Ellis from IT on a Sunday afternoon, when she’s slightly tipsy and full of bubbly joy because of Jim’s dorky charm and awkward compliments, because for just this once she’s the confident one, because she feels strong and attractive and capable._

_He’s sweet and careful and very very nervous. His fingers tremble and he only gets her bra undone on the fourth try, then accidentally traps her hair in her zip._

_He apologises a lot._

_Afterwards, he rests his head on her shoulder and she strokes his dark hair, feeling some strange tender urge – but nothing more._

_As usual._

_***_

_She fucks Jim Moriarty on a Wednesday night, trapped between his body and his kitchen table, legs around his waist and nails digging into the flesh of his shoulders, his teeth against her neck and her body shaking with something she isn’t sure she can manage, something she’s never felt before, and Jim laughs and makes her come over and over again until she feels like passing out._

_He doesn’t apologise once._

***

Two days after she breaks up with Jim, Molly decides to drop by the IT department, just to check. He’s been doing the night shifts this week, so there’s no chance of awkward encounters. She can just ask his colleagues if he’s been doing alright, tell them to keep an eye on him, to take him out for a drink or something. He’d looked like he needed it.

She never thought she’d be able to break someone’s heart like that. That someone would be heartbroken over _her_. But he’ll manage, he’s a nice lad, he’ll find someone else. Someone who’s actually in love with him.

She opens the door.

There are policemen everywhere. Rooting through desks, talking to the IT people, someone in a boilersuit dusting Jim’s desk.

Molly’s fingers go tight on the doorknob and the world tilts sideways.

A policeman stops in front of her. “And you are?”

She struggles to find words. “Molly Hooper, pathologist. Is – is it Jim? Is he alright?”

 _\- please no please no please be alright_ -

The man snorts. “As far as we know, yeah. Unfortunately.”

“Wh– what?”

“Fucking bastard. I was there when the block of flats exploded, you know. Saw the carnage. And all the while he was here – Hey, you’re not a journalist or something, are you?”

Molly shakes her head. Her vision is spinning. “No, pathologist.”

“Right, you said. So, did you know him?” He gives her a suspicious look, and Molly staggers on a suddenly swaying floor because – because –

“For fuck’s sake, Steve, give her a moment.”

Molly looks up. Sally Donovan, the sergeant, the nice one. She gives Molly a quick, strained smile and shoos away the other policeman.

“You knew him?” she asks, kindly, holding Molly’s arm.

“We dated.”

Sally stares at her for a bit. And then she rolls her eyes, curses, and says, “ _Fucking_ Sherlock.”

***

They go to a separate office. Molly gets a cup of tea. It’s too sweet, and it scalds her tongue when she sips.

“Drink it,” Sally says. “You look like you could use some sugar in your system.”

She obediently takes another sip, lets the sickly-sweet liquid coat her tongue. “Can you please tell me what’s going on?” she asks quietly.

Sally sighs and sits down. “Right. Well – he really hasn’t told you anything?”

“Sherlock? No.”

Sally hisses. “Bastard. Fucking typical. Okay, your boyfriend – ”

“Ex-boyfriend.”

“Right. How much do you know about him? Did he ever talk about his past, his family?”

“He – yes, he did. That he used to work in Manchester, and his mum died a few years ago and he…” She trails off.

“He never _showed_ you anything, though, did he? Let you see pictures or something? Did you ever talk to anyone, his friends, family? Did you go to his home?

She shakes her head, mute. Takes another sip of tea.

Sally sighs. “Molly, there’s no easy way to say this, but… “

“Just say it.” She looks down at her knees. “Please.”

A moment of silence. And then:

“He lied. Jim Ellis didn’t exist until about two months ago. We have reason to believe he’s the man behind the recent attacks, and that he went undercover here to get to Sherlock. It was a dummy identity, nothing real about it.”

Molly nods. It all sounds so clear, so reasonable. Like she’s been stupid not to realise.

Of course he wasn’t actually interested in her. Of course this was about Sherlock.

“Molly? Are you alright?”

She nods again. “Fine.”

“Yeah, _right_.” Sally leans forward, eyes focused on Molly’s face. “Did he ever mention something? Ever say something that made you suspicious?”

_his hands trembling on her waist, his smile, a bit insecure but so happy, and he closes his eyes as he kisses her, soft and tender_

She shakes her head.

“Think about it. He might – ”

“No. No, he never said anything.”

Sally leans backwards, crosses her arms. She’s frowning, as if she’s worrying.

“I’m fine,” Molly says again, and tries very hard to believe it.

***

She thinks about going to Sherlock, throwing it in his face, demanding answers, but she loses her resolve before she even gets home. He wouldn’t care either way, Sherlock. She doesn’t matter much to him.

She goes to the bedroom to undress and her eyes fall on her bed. It’s still unmade. She’d been too tired yesterday to change the sheets, and the day before that she –

_she pulls him between her legs, guiding him, and ‘is this alright?’ he asks, all earnest and sweet, and she smiles and kisses his forehead, whispers ‘yes’_

She dives for the bed and starts tearing off the sheets, frantically. She breaks a nail on the bedding but keeps moving until her bed is stripped down to the mattress and all the sheets are in the machine.

She stares at the spinning laundry, idly biting at the sharp edge of her broken nail.

 _‘It’s alright to be afraid,’_ Sally had said.

Molly sits down on her sofa and folds her hands. Waits.

She’s not entirely sure what she’s feeling, but she’s fairly sure it isn’t fear.

***

Sherlock puts the needle into the corpse’s vein.

 _You didn’t tell me,_ Molly thinks.

“If it leaves marks I’m going to get into trouble,” she says. Even to her ears, her voice sounds flat, but Sherlock doesn’t seem to notice.

_You met him and knew and didn’t tell me._

He waves a hand, dismissive. “It should just dissolve after an hour or so, leave no discernible traces.” He leans down and squints at the corpse.

_You saw us together and didn’t even think about letting me know._

“Right.” He claps his hands together and straightens up. “Call me if any other bodies show up with these markings, there might be more coming still.”

_Why would I, when you didn’t even spare a thought for me?_

She nods, holds the door for him as he leaves, stares at his back as he strides down the corridor.

_I fucked a psychopath and you didn’t think it was important for me to know._

She sighs and lets the door falls closed.

***

‘ _It’s okay to be scared, Molly_ ,’ Lestrade had said. Given her a can of mace on the lowdown, and a card with a phone number she could call. Like Sally, he’d been gentle and kind, and so concerned with her.

Molly had put the mace dutifully in her purse, the card in her wallet, had nodded and promised she would get in touch if needed.

If needed.

She locks her door, pauses with her fingers on the key. He could come and find her. He knows where she lives, he could come here and –

But why would he? It’s Sherlock he was interested in, not her. She was just a means to an end.

She takes off her coat and purse. Her hands are steady. There’s a neighbour upstairs she sometimes chats with, who wouldn’t mind her spending some time together. She could go up, drop some vague hints about feeling unsafe, make sure she wasn’t alone. That’s the sensible thing to do, what other people would do. After all, just sitting alone in a flat isn’t healthy, is it, when you’ve – when someone…

She hangs up her coat and goes to her living room, sits down on her sofa with her legs tucked underneath her, switches on the telly. It’s Eastenders, but she has trouble concentrating on what’s going on.

Her phone starts ringing. She checks it – unknown number, but Sherlock has used other people’s phones before. And who else would call her at this hour? She resigns herself and answers the phone.

“Yes?” she says.

A pause, a strange crackling sound, and then, “ _Molly Hooper_.”

She drops the phone.

 _No_ , she thinks, more confused than anything else. And _but Sherlock_ and _I’m not scared that’s the problem_ and _I liked it when he kissed me_.

She picks the phone back up with trembling fingers.

“Did you drop it?” he asks, amused. But the accent is different and the tone is different and it’s, he’s…

“So I know you said we’d be better off separately, but I was hoping we could give it another try. I’ve changed, you see.” He chuckles, warm and affectionate.

_i saw the carnage_

“So why don’t you come over, and we can talk about it?”

“Come – come over?” she stammers.

“Well, yes. That’s only fair, isn’t it? After all those times I’ve been to yours?”

“Is… Is this a game?”

He laughs. “Isn’t everything? But not in the way you think, no. Come over.”

“You’re joking.”

“ _Molly_. I’m deadly serious.”

“But what about Sher-”

“Sherlock Shmerlock, I’m interested in _you_. Come here, and I’ll show you just how much.”

She takes a deep shaking breath, her fingers edging to her purse, the mace and the card.  


Then she pulls her hand back.

“Where?” she asks.

He gives her the address and ends the call.

Her hands are still shaking.

 _He didn’t bother to tell me_. And -

 _I’m interested in you_.

So she gets her coat and leaves her flat.

***

Her hand is on the mace in her purse. Her heartbeat has sped up, hammering insistently, as if it’s a warning. _Don’t go don’t go don’t go_.

What would Lestrade say, if he saw her here? Sally? Sherlock?

She goes inside the house, up the stairs to the top floor, like she was told. Her knees are wobbly and she feels dizzy and blurry-eyed, things refusing to come into focus.

Is this a dream? It certainly can’t be real, can it?

The door is open, beckoning her in. Her heart is racing.

 _Don’t go don’t go don’t go_.

She goes in.

There’s a large window, looking out on London, and she gets so distracted by the dizzying view that it takes her a moment to realise, to notice the other presence in the room, the soft sound of shifting fabric and breathing.

 _Don’t look_.

She turns, slowly.

He’s leaning against the wall, hands in his pockets, watching her. His shoulders are loose and straight, not hunched, and even unmoving like that there’s a lazy confident grace about him Molly can only dream of. And his face…

It’s the same face Jim Ellis had. She knows this.

She still doesn’t recognise him.

“Molly Hooper, you bad _bad_ girl,” Jim drawls.

She runs her thumb over the edge of her broken nail, swallows.

His eyes are so dark they’re almost black. Why had she never noticed that before?

“You surprised me,” Jim continues. Is he still Jim? Isn’t he someone else now? “I didn’t think you’d actually have the guts to come – at least, not this quickly. My guess would’ve been you’d hold out for a while, out of pride or shame or whatever misguided morals you believe in, but then eventually you’d stumble in here, overcome with curiosity… But that just shows how much I know, I suppose.” He smiles.

She’s _never_ been looked at like that.

“So, Molly,” he says. “Satisfy my curiosity. Why are you here?”

She can’t speak. Her throat has dried up.

“No? Nothing?”

He pushes off the wall, hands still in his pockets, and strolls closer to her.

 _Run_ , her hindbrain screams at her. _Run now_.

She stands her ground.

He stops right in front of her and tilts his head, looking down at her. He’s so close she can feel his body heat, his breath, and he’s real this is real this is happening oh god –

His hand takes the back of her neck, warm, solid, not a tremor in sight.

Her knees almost buckle.

“Why,” he says softly, “are you here.”

Demanding an answer. Not moving until she speaks.

 _Because he didn’t tell me. Because you look at me. Because I should be scared but I’m not_.

She licks her lips. “I’m – I don’t know.”

“Don’t you?” He smiles again, lazy, predatory. His thumb moves slightly, stroking just below her ear, and her eyes flutter closed.

She opens her mouth, but nothing comes out. She _can’t_.

“Show me, then,” Jim asks, leaning a tiny bit closer. His nails caress the side of her throat and heat flares up between her legs and fuck it, fuck Sherlock, fuck everything.

She leans in and kisses him.                                                                                                  

It doesn’t happen the way it happened before.

He kisses back hard, teeth tugging at her lip and his tongue slipping inside, and his fingers dig in against her neck and the other finds her waist, pulls her abruptly close and yes, yes, he’s real, warm and hard and real against her and she’s _mad_ , doing this.

She takes his shoulder, the back of his head. He swings them around and his hand goes to her thigh, pulling up her skirt and something hard slams into the back of her legs – table, right, he’s, _god_.

He pushes her back and breaks the kiss, staring at her with dark heated eyes. His hand is still on her thigh, warm and heavy and full of all the things he could to her.

“So that’s why,” he says softly, a very small smile tugging at his lips.

He kisses her again.

Molly spreads her legs for him and tries not to think of betrayal.

***

“I liked you,” she says, when she’s washed the sex-scented sweat from her skin, when the soreness has faded into something warm, something that should probably be shameful.

“That, Molly dear, was rather the intention.”

Jim hasn’t washed yet. Jim’s skin still has sweat clinging to it, and here and there a reddish spot or stripe from her teeth, her nails, her mouth.

His lips are a bit swollen, the corners reddish.

He grins, wide, his eyes glittering, focused on her the way Sherlock looks at tissue samples. “And do you like me now?”

She’d screamed. Actually shouted, because she couldn’t keep it in anymore, because if she didn’t she’d break out of her skin.

The most anyone has ever gotten out of her before was a half-arsed moan.

“I don’t think _like_ is the right word,” she says.

“Then what is?”

She fiddles with the clasps of her purse, looks down. The floor is made of shiny polished wood, stylish and expensive looking, not a mote of dust in sight. Like the rest of the flat. She didn't really notice at first how luxurious this place is, all sleek spotless furniture and stylish designer decorating, but now she does and she feels painfully out of place. She doesn’t fit here. She doesn’t fit with  _him_.

“Your shift starts again in thirty minutes,” he says. His voice sounds calm. Jim from before never sounded calm.

“Can – ” She stops herself.

“Go on.” He smiles again, and no one should have a smile like that, not when they’re sprawled out in tangled sheets and covered in sex marks and only a few minutes ago she’d been writhing underneath him. “Say it.”

“Can I come back?”

He slides out of bed and slowly comes to her. Still naked, while she’s minty-fresh and fully dressed and armed with hidden mace. He stops in front of her, not touching but close enough that he might as well, for the effect it has on her.

Her throat goes dry.

“I want you to,” he says, softly.

***

And that’s how that happened.

 

* * *

 

 

**II**

 

 _She fucks Sebastian on a dreary rainy Thursday night, when she should be somewhere else_ _, guilt knocking repeatedly against the window but she doesn’t let it in, not this time. It’s the first time in ages she really feels something again, and he laughs when she arches her hips against his and moans encouragements and afterwards he just holds her for a bit._

 _He doesn’t apologise, but his fingers in her hair are gentle and when he whispers ‘is_ _this alright?’ it doesn’t feel like insecurity._

***

The aftermath of Sherlock’s supposed death is horrible.

It’s John, with red-rimmed eyes and shaking hands who’s grieving so deeply he can’t even cry anymore; it’s Mrs Hudson trying to be brave but failing, over and over again; it’s Sally with her face closed off and dreadful dreadful guilt in her eyes, and Greg who’s aged ten years in a day, grey-faced and still in shock –

\- and it’s Molly, standing quiet and tired and unnoticeable at the back. Knowing. Muzzled.

Maybe she had underestimated what he asked of her.

***

It doesn’t stay horrible, though. Nothing ever does. Months pass and eventually Sherlock’s secret becomes nothing a background note to her ordinary, normal life, where she meets a nice boy and gets a raise and finds a new apartment and –

\- and is utterly, painfully bored.

It’s a horrible thing, really. She shouldn’t be. She should be grateful for the peace and quiet, the domesticity. She certainly shouldn’t be missing – missing any of it.

But that doesn’t change the fact that she’s sitting here eating her shepherd’s pie and listening to Tom prattling on about something that happened at work and she wants to _scream_ with how bored she is, with all the things she wants and can’t have.

She shouldn’t. Tom’s nice. He’s safe.

Maybe that’s the problem.

***

So maybe that’s why she takes a detour after work and goes to a pub, even though she’s not the pub-going sort, even though she’s all on her own. Because if she doesn’t, she has to go home to their flat and take-out Chinese and Tom's inane prattle and it’s just – she’ll be able to cope with that in a minute, but for now she just needs…

Needs something.

She opens the door to the pub and immediately realises it’s a mistake, ‘cause choosing _this_ over her home? The smoke and the loud strangers and the leers and the stink of spilled beer?

She chews her lip, tries to gather the will to leave again. It won’t work, just like it hasn’t worked the last dozen times. Even this is better than the odd feeling of disconnect she gets at home these days.

She hoists her bag higher, looks around, tries to find a relatively quiet spot to sit. There’s someone sitting at the bar, on his own…  


Her mouth opens in a quiet _oh_.

It’s just another reason to leave, and she knows, _knows_ she’s going home now but her foot moves forward and then suddenly she’s at the bar standing right next to him and she can’t go back.

“White wine, please,” she asks. The bartender hands her a glass, then moves to deal with other clients. Leaving just the two of them.

She takes a nervous sip from her drink, glances aside. All she can see is his hand around his glass, knuckles bruised, a scrape across his wrist. Disembodied. Impersonal, and yet not, because she _remembers_ those hands and what they can do.

She swallows. She could just still leave, if she wanted. He hasn’t acknowledged her yet. She can go.

Once again, some part of her disobeys.

“I didn’t tell anyone,” she says quietly. “I think I – I think I should have, but I didn’t.”

Silence, and for a moment she thinks she’s mistaken after all, that he’s someone else. But then he speaks.

“Didn’t you?” Sebastian says, his voice a rough rasp. “So I shouldn’t be worried about Mycroft fucking Holmes popping up out of the woodwork to save you from my evil clutches?”

“No.”

He gives her a look. He looks – tired, haggard, with three days’ worth of stubble and dark circles underneath blood-shot eyes. He’s still familiar, though, the curve of his mouth and the line of his cheekbones and those eyes, an almost colourless light grey.

“I have a boyfriend now,” she blurts out.

He laughs. It isn’t a healthy-sounding laugh. She remembers the way he used to laugh and the contrast makes her stomach turn.

“Really? And how’s that working out for you?”

She looks down at the bar, doesn’t reply at first. “It’s…”

“Normal, hm? Cosy evenings watching shit telly and going to meet his parents and shopping for sofa cushions together?”

She peeks up at him. “Yes.”

“And?”

“I should – ” and she stops herself, because her memory just kicked her in the shins. _Fuck should_. And although the context might be a lot different now, here, the point still stands.

“I don’t have much of a choice, do I?” she says instead. There’s something bitter in her voice. She doesn’t bother hiding it.

“Dunno. You could find Holmes, go gallivanting along with him across Europe as he wipes away all the bad guys. Be his loyal sidekick.”

She looks down again. “He won’t let me. And I don’t – I don’t think I should. Don’t think it’d be good for me.”

“ _Good_? No, but since when does that come into the equation?”

He still looks handsome, even exhausted like this. And he _knows_ , and she remembers the way he’d held her, and she’s been feeling so –

“His name is Tom,” she says, using the words like a prayer, an incantation. A charm to keep the evil things out. “He’s a civil servant, an engineer. We’re thinking about getting a dog together. He’s – ”

“How’s the sex?”

Her mouth snaps shut.

“Yeah, I thought so,” Sebastian says, turning back. He drinks deep from his pint. Molly watches his throat move as he swallows, his mouth wet against the rim of the glass, and something stirs.

“He’s not bad,” Molly says, out of some vague sense of loyalty.

“Not good, either, though.”

She looks away, blushing.

He puts his glass down and turns to her, studying her, and god, she’d forgotten what that felt like, being the object of someone’s focus, having someone really properly _see_ her.

“I’m in a hotel a couple of streets away,” he says, after a bit.

Molly stands up. “I think he’s going to ask me to marry me. Tom. In a few months, or something. I really think he will.”

“Good for you.” He stands up as well, puts money on the bar and takes his coat. “Are you coming, then?”

She closes her eyes, curses herself.

And says _yes_.

***

 _what are you doing_   


The hotel room is a bog-standard one, clean but bare, nothing but a large bed and a small wardrobe, a tiny bathroom tucked away in the corner. Not as sleazy as she feared it would be, but its anonymity is still unsettling.

_what are you doing_

Sebastian shucks his coat and jacket. Beneath it, he has a shoulder holster with a gun. The sight of it – it should shock her, surprise her, scare her, and it doesn’t and what the hell is _wrong_ with her?

He sits down on the bed and takes off his shoes and socks. It’s startling, practical, matter-of-fact. She has a fuzzy image in her head of these kind of situations and they include impassioned kissing, falling down on a bed in a frenzy of lust. This, this – pragmatism, makes it feel odd. Premeditated. No impulsivity to blame it on.

Her palms are sweating.

He continues stripping. There, his chest, a bit bonier than she remembers but still solid, muscled, scarred. His flat stomach, the hollows at his hips, his legs and then he takes his boxers off and it’s unreal, impossible. She doesn’t do these kind of things. She’s a good person.

Isn’t she?

He comes to her, casually naked. She hasn’t removed a thing yet. He gently takes her bag and puts it away, then pushes the coat off her shoulders. It falls to the floor.

He tips her chin up. She closes her eyes.

_what the hell are you doing_

They kiss. He’s careful. Tender.

She pulls away and wipes at her cheek. He looks down and starts unbuttoning her shirt. His fingertips keep brushing her skin and that simple touch sets her alight in a way Tom’s clumsy groping never has and guilt is clawing through her. This isn’t like last time; she has someone now. This is betrayal, no way around it.

He pushes her shirt off, then goes to his knees in front of her. She expects him to continue undressing her but instead he grabs the back of her thigh and presses his face, his mouth, against her crotch through her trousers and she closes her eyes, takes hold of his hair. He squeezes her thigh and she can’t keep in a small noise.

“Please,” she whispers, although she doesn’t know if it’s _please stop_ or _please keep going_. “Please, just – ”

He pulls the zip down slowly, then yanks her trousers down to her knees in one pull. And then he looks up.

It’s careful, measuring, and this is what she missed, this is what Tom doesn’t give her, the way he looks at her like she _matters_.

He pulls her knickers to the side and his fingers slide against her and her knees buckle and she wants to cry with how good and how wrong it feels.

***

“They’d hate me, wouldn’t they? If they knew.”

“Does it matter to you?” Sebastian asks. He’s leaning out of bed, reaching for his cigarettes.

She asked for a break, a few moments to catch her breath, recover a bit. And she got one, no protests, no questions asked. 

If she’d tried that with Tom he’d start asking questions, trying to work out what was wrong, or he’d just comply in sullen silence, or maybe he’d even try to ignore her request until she repeated it – but that’s not fair on him, he’s not that bad, he _tries_.

But Sebastian… He doesn’t need to try. He just _does_. It’s that simplicity above all that she needs, here, the way everything goes easy and natural.

“I care about them,” Molly says.

“That’s not what I asked.” He lights up and turns to her.

He takes her seriously, that’s another thing. Of course Tom takes her seriously as well, but he’s – she doesn’t talk to him about everything. All he sees from her is the surface, the acceptable bits, and maybe she shouldn’t blame him for his occasional condescension, if he thinks that’s all she is.

There’s a whole part of herself she keeps hidden from him and she knows for certain that if she ever did share anything about that, he’d leave her without a second’s thought.

“I… I don’t know,” she says. “I hate the thought that they’d… that they would judge me for it.”

Sebastian frowns. “But?”

“But…” She fiddles with the fraying ends of the duvet. “It’s my decision. It isn’t their place to judge.” She looks up at him. “Is it?”

He shrugs. “I don’t spend much thought on other people’s opinions about me.”

“I envy you,” she says, with a sad little smile.

He continues smoking, looking up at the ceiling. Molly waits until she comes to her senses again, but – but maybe it’s the glass of wine she had before coming here, or maybe it’s the fact that this room seems like its own little bubble, removed from the outer world, as if nothing here could have any consequences in her real life…

“I think you should tell him,” Sebastian says.

“Wh-  what?”

He smirks at her. “Not about this, obviously. I mean sex, in general.” He closes his eyes and takes another drag. “Most likely he doesn’t even know he’s doing something wrong.  Just tell him what you want, what works, and if he’s even a remotely decent bloke he’ll listen to you.”

“And if he doesn’t?”

“Then he’s an arsehole and you’re obviously better off without him.” He cracks one eye open and smiles. “Trust me, a lot of men are shit lays that need to be educated a bit before they’re of any use. You’re better off fucking women.”

She laughs. “That’s – that’s not really an option, not for me.”

“Suit yourself.” He rolls over and stubs his cigarette out in the ashtray on the bedside table. “So.”

“So?”

He rolls back to face her. “Picking up back where we started? Or…”

“Yeah.” She breathes out, swallows. “Picking up again.”

He cradles her skull and pulls her into a careful kiss and she rolls over, on top of him, knees on either side of his hips. He runs his hand over her side, light and careful, giving her goosebumps.

“Yeah?” he asks, casual but gentle.

She nods.

***

“Hi.”

“Hi,” she says. Her voice is steady.

Tom leans in and pecks her on the lips. “You’re late. Trouble at work?”

“Yeah," she says, the lie falling easily. But then again, she’s been lying non-stop lately.

_Sherlock is dead._

_I’m fine._

_I don’t know what happened to the body._

_I love you too._

What’s one more?

She presses her hand against her bag, her phone, with Sebastian’s phone number and the invitation that came with it, and she _knows_ she’s going to back to him, not just once or twice. She’s going back and she’ll keep going back, until this need finally stops gnawing at her.

Her secret affair.

She almost giggles.

“Something funny?” Tom asks, smiling but with an edge of worry, of insecurity.

She smiles at him, doesn’t reply. Instead she says, “Coming to bed, then, love?”

He blinks in surprise. He’s not used to her taking the lead, after all. “Er…”

She resist the urge to roll her eyes and goes up the stairs.

A few moments later his footsteps follow hers.

***

Then Sherlock comes back.

 

 

* * *

 

 

**III**

 

_She fucks Sherlock on a Wednesday morning._

_It’s more an act of revenge than love, more punishment than reward. Sherlock is awkward, clumsy, virginal and insecure. She shows him what to do with impatience meant to hurt and it does but they still fuck, she still has his mouth against hers and his cock in her hand. She’s crying; she’s angry; and god knows what Sherlock thinks or feels but he doesn’t pull back._

_It’s an apology. It’s a sorry in the only way Sherlock will ever be able to give her and it hurts and it’s frustrating and she hates him for it._

_This isn’t what she wanted._

***

They play the footage over and over. On the six o’clock news, the seven o’clock, on Newsnight.

“Really a celeb now, isn’t he?” Tom says, smiling. He hands her a glass. Molly drinks without taking her eyes off the screen.

He’s photogenic, Sherlock. Looks good on camera, with his swishing coat, all tall and thin and commanding. Poor John pales in comparison.

God knows what she would’ve looked like, next to that.

Tom leans over her and kisses the top of her head. “Dinner, love? Steak and kidney pie, your favourite.”

“Yeah.” Her voice breaks. She clears her throat, shakes her head. “Yes, just – I’ll be there in a minute.”

“Sure.” He pecks her cheek and potters off.

 _“Infamous consulting detective Sherlock Holmes returns from the dead_ ,” the reporter says. “ _After two years of travelling incognito, presumed dead by even those closest to him_ – ”

She switches off the TV.

***

Breaking up with Tom reminds her a lot of breaking up with Jim. Tom shouts more, is less resigned than Jim was – than Jim _pretended_ to be – but the underlying stuff is still the same. The hurt, the betrayal, the way he looks at her like a beaten dog and god, she just wants rid of him, why can’t he just _go_?

And then he does, and she almost takes it all back because after months and months of living together the flat feels too empty. She can hear her own breathing, her heartbeat. She isn’t used to this anymore.

She looks down at her hands, at the pale band of skin where she used to wear his ring. She did the right thing. She should’ve done it ages before. She shouldn’t have kept lying – except that’s what she does now, isn’t it? Lying?

She looks up again. Her own face stares back at her from the mirror. Pale, serious. Guilt-free.

She never used to lie. She used to pride herself on her honesty. But now, she can’t even remember how this started, what made her lie for the first time, why she –

But, that too is a lie.

Of course she knows who turned her into a liar.

***

221b is familiar.

It shouldn’t be. She doesn’t come here that often, really. It’s Sherlock who invades her spaces, not the other way around – and yes, that reversal does feel good, in a vindictive mean kind of way.

But it definitely _feels_ familiar. The stained sofa, the low coffee table covered in stray files and old newspapers, the empty mugs littering every available surface, the medical instruments casually discarded in the kitchen sink… It’s all exactly how she imagined it.

Sherlock is staring at her like she appeared in a puff of sulphur and smoke.

“Did John send you?” he asks, puzzled, accusing.

She shakes her head. “No one sent me.”

“Then why are you here?”

“Because I – ” and she stops, words leaving her. She squeezes her eyes shut, tries again. “Cause I wanted, I mean, you left and then – ”

Sherlock sighs and turns away, eyes already back on his computer screen. “Whatever it is, Molly, can’t it wait? I’m in the middle of something rather important right now, so you – ”

“You _left_ me,” she yells.  


He whirls in surprise. “Sorry?”

“You left me,” she says, breathing hard.

“Well, you can hardly expect me to have – ”

“ _Shut up!_ ”

His mouth snaps shut.

She takes a deep, shaking breath. “You – you showed me this world, dragged me in, and then you forgot about me. You went off with John and, and pretended to be dead and did god knows what and you _abandoned_ me and I didn’t know how to – I _tried_ , Sherlock. I tried to do normal. And I couldn’t, I can't anymore, and it’s all _your damn fault_.”

He stares at her.

She closes her eyes, pinches the bridge of her nose. “I’m – I’m sorry. I’m tired.”

“Is this about…” He takes a step closer, then hesitates. “I could never be your – your _boyfriend_ , Molly. Surely you realise that.”

“That’s not what I want,” she says. She sounds bitter, old, frustrated in a worn-out way. “Not anymore.”

Sherlock frowns and does that head-tilt thing he does whenever he’s genuinely puzzled. “Then what?”

She shouldn’t.

Sherlock doesn’t feel comfortable with sex. She’s known that for ages, and she respected it, and now – She shouldn’t. It’s cruel, it’s mean, it isn’t who she is.

Except she doesn’t have a clue who she really is, anymore.

She takes the two steps separating them and pulls him down by the neck and kisses him full on the mouth.

He doesn’t react.

She thinks of Sebastian, his easy smile and the care in his hands. And she thinks of Jim, his relentless focus and the way he could make her scream. And she doesn’t pull back; instead, she tilts Sherlock’s head, pushes the tip of her tongue inside, strokes her hand over his side. He shivers.

_Stop. Stop stop stopstopstop –_

She steps back. “Oh,” Sherlock says, his eyes wide.

“I don’t – ” Sherlock says.

“If this is what you…” Sherlock says, nervous and scared in a way she’s never seen him before.

So she gives herself no time to overthink and takes his hand and drags him into his bedroom.

***

Afterwards she finds the hidden packet of cigarettes he thinks she doesn’t know about and steals one. It’s a stupid, childish kind of rebellion, the sort of thing sixteen-year old her would have found very exciting. She isn’t sixteen anymore. God knows what her past self would think of her actions now.

She opens a window and breathes out a stream of smoke, letting the cold air pervade the room. She hasn’t smoked in more than ten years and the tar makes her cough, at first, but she persists.

She hurt him. He’s easy enough to hurt, Sherlock, if you know how, and Molly’s been studying him for so long that she knows every single last one of his weaknesses. It can’t be blamed on ignorance, on a misunderstanding; she set out to hurt him and it worked. She could have done this some other way, gotten what she wanted without needing to break down Sherlock’s oh-so-fragile ego, but she didn’t.

So what does that make her?

Maybe that’s why she took up with Jim. Maybe she’s always been like him, like Sebastian, maybe she’d simply been in denial about it.

Footsteps. She turns to see Sherlock step out of the bedroom, wearing freshly washed clothes, hair neat, face carefully blank. He looks at her for a few seconds, then goes to the kitchen.

She turns back to the window.

She doesn’t regret it. If she did, she could have managed somehow, tell herself that she’d been stupid, impulsive, made a mistake – so what, everyone was entitled to the occasional fuck-up, weren’t they? As long as she felt guilty about it afterwards.

But she doesn’t.

It shouldn’t surprise her. She’s a liar. A traitor. She hasn’t been a _good person_ in a long long time, not since she stepped into Jim’s flat without telling anyone. Not since she broke Tom’s heart and felt nothing but irritation about it.

A soft touch on her shoulder. Sherlock hands her a warm cup of tea. Molly flicks her cigarette out of the window and takes the mug. “Thanks,” she says softly.

“Welcome.”

He keeps standing next to her. It’s awkward. Of course, being around Sherlock has always been awkward, but this is a different kind. He looks calm, and composed, but now she knows what’s underneath if you claw that front away.

 _I’m sorry_ , she almost says, except that would be another lie and it would make this whole thing for nothing.  


Anyway, she’s been apologising her whole damn life. Maybe now is a good time to stop.

“Don’t you worry sometimes?” she asks. “If you’re… Where you draw the line?”

“No.”

“Right.” She takes a sip from her tea. “How? Why don’t – I mean, normal people worry about that sort of thing, don’t they?”

“I wouldn’t know. I’ve never been _normal_.”

He sneers at the last word, as if he despises it. Like Jim, like Sebastian, it all seems to come so easy to them. Like they revel in being different instead of worrying about it all.

She thinks about telling him. Even now, she doesn’t have a clue what his reaction would be. Maybe he knows already. Maybe he’d throw her out and never see her again. Maybe he wouldn’t even care. Isn’t that one the most likely?

She closes her eyes. “I don’t want to be this, you know. I don’t.”

“Yes,” Sherlock says. “And doesn’t that say enough?”

She opens her eyes again. He gives her a small, thin, awkward smile, then goes back to the kitchen.

She drinks from her tea. Maybe he’s right. Maybe it’s enough.

Maybe it isn’t.

 

 

* * *

 

 

**IV**

 

_She fucks a nameless stranger one Saturday night. He’s one in a line of many, forgettable and nothing more than a means to an end, a way to bring back some excitement into her life. She takes him to her bed and tells him what to do and refuses, absolutely fucking refuses, to feel in any way guilty about it._

_He doesn’t stay the night._

***

“He doesn’t deserve you, you know.”

Molly glances up.

She doesn’t know what to make of Mary. Ever since Jim Molly's been wary of people who seem too normal, and that’s what Mary looks like to her. Too nice. Too polished.

“Who?” Molly asks.

“Sherlock.”

Mary is kind. Mary watches. Mary looks at John with a sort of desperate pleading longing, something like the way Molly imagines she must’ve looked at Sherlock, once. Hell, who is she kidding, she probably still looks at him like that. But only sometimes.

Molly ducks her head. “I’m not his – ”

“You see, that’s exactly what I think you are.”

“What?”

“ _His_.”

“Not exclusively,” Molly mumbles, and Mary’s eyebrows go up and her eyes go sharp.

“Are you alright, Molly?” Mary asks, so gently Molly almost starts crying.

She comes close to telling it all, just then, the whole truth of it, Jim and Sebastian and Sherlock and all the secrets she’s kept, all the lies she’s been telling.

But Mary… She wouldn’t understand.

“I’m fine,” Molly says, chin raised, a weak smile on her lips.

Mary gives her a deeply sceptical look. “You’re good at appearing fine, I’ll give you that.”

“It’s…” She lowers her eyes again. “I don’t know.”

“Sherlock?”

She shrugs, helplessly.

“Do you love him?” Mary asks, carefully.

“Yes. No. I – I thought I did.”

“But now you’re not sure.”

“I’ve hurt him.”

Mary smiles, tired. “We often hurt the people we love. That’s how that happens, you know. Because they’re so close to us, because they show us their weak spots. You can’t go through life without hurting them.”

“Deliberately?”

Mary cocks her head. “He’s hurt you as well, hasn’t he?”

“Sherlock hurts everyone.” Molly bites the inside of her cheek, swallows. “He can’t help it.”

“Easy, those words, aren’t they? _He can’t help it_. As if he’s not responsible for what he does.”

Molly looks up.

“There’s always a choice,” Mary says, and there's something strange in her voice, something insistent and brittle and  _knowing_ , in a way that makes Molly think, absurdly, of Jim.

Molly shakes her head, slowly. “I don’t know which choice is the right one. Like I - I can't see. I don't know what to do.”

Mary leans back against the counter and folds her arms, eyes on Molly. Studying her, but this time it makes Molly think more of Sebastian than Jim, that same sense of endless patience and understanding and a complete lack of judgement. 

It feels strangely safe.

“Want my advice?” Mary asks.

Molly nods.

“Make your own life, separate from him. Go out. Find yourself a boyfriend.”

“I don’t want a boyfriend.” Molly shakes her head. “I – I had a boyfriend, and it all went wrong.”

“Then try another. Or, just, it doesn’t have to be romance. Or long term, even.” Mary smiles, warm, kind. “Just find yourself someone else to flush him from your system. Someone just for you.”

Molly looks up and smiles through her blush. “I don't think I’m - I'm that sort of woman.”

Mary shrugs, unconcerned. “You’re whatever you want to be.”

***

The first time she does it it’s awkward, almost painful. She sits in a bar in a dress that’s too tight, the underwire of her expensive new bra digging into her ribcage, a drink in her hand that looks sophisticated but is making her too drunk, too quickly. But she persists, and eventually a guy comes up to her. He’s quite nice-looking, and a bit too arrogant and confident but he’ll do, for one night.

She takes him to the same hotel she went to with Sebastian.

He isn’t particularly good, not like Jim or Sebastian had been, but when she no-nonsense tells him what she likes, what he should do, he listens. So that's something, at least.

He laughs, though. “Didn’t think you were that kind of girl,” he says, breathless, with his hand down her pants and her mouth on his chest.

“Well, I am,” she says, briefly irritated, but then she forces it down and focuses on this, on bodies and sex and pleasure and damn all else.

Saturday next it’s the same act, a different stranger, and she tries to stop caring, stop minding people judging her. The day after Sherlock’s eyes linger on a love bite on her neck but he doesn’t comment, and John cracks a joke and gives her a wink, meant as a friendly gesture but she can’t help but wince, pull her collar up.

Another Saturday, another stranger. Rinse and repeat. She tries a woman once, remembering Sebastian’s words, and it’s nice but it doesn’t really do much for her, so she drops that line of thought, goes back to men.

They rarely stay the night.

 _So what_ , she thinks, looking in the mirror.

“So what,” she tells her mirror image, meeting her eyes without flinching. Fuck should. Fuck shame.

The day after that she wears her collar down, and when Mary smiles and whispers _well done, you_ , Molly even manages a cheerful grin in reply.

 ***

Then Jim comes back.

 

 

* * *

 

 

**V**

 

_She fucks Jim Moriarty on a sun-drenched Sunday morning, with the entire country looking for him, the news on in the background, Sherlock calling her mobile over and over again._

_She digs her nails into his chest and stays on top and bites down on his lip and he’s delighted, and vicious, and every bit as good as she remembered him, and she doesn’t feel guilty for one damn second._

_And afterwards, well, afterwards…_

***

This time, Sherlock doesn’t come to her for help. She only hears about the murder afterwards, sees the news reports, the endless repeats of the purposely vague comments of the government officials, the brief overviews of Magnussen’s life and recent accomplishments.

His face comes up large on the screen while a reporter waffles on about media magnates and monopolies, and _Well,_ Molly thinks, staring at Magnussen’s dead fish-eyes, _at least I didn’t fuck him_.

And then she almost bursts out in hysterical laughter because _god_ , her life.

Mike gives her a worried look. “Are you alright, Molls?”

She nods, impatiently. “Fine.”

Lies again. Or are they? She’s over the worst of the shock, and now when she sees Sherlock’s face on the screen all she feels, really, is anger. Anger at how stupid he’s been. The same anger that’d made her slap Sherlock’s face, which had been one of the most satisfying things she’d done in a long long time. Anger is a good thing.

She’ll take anger over shame any day.

“Don’t forget to lock up, then,” Mike says, frowning a little.

“Won’t. Night, Mike.”

He gives her an awkward smile and leaves. She can’t remember the last time he bothered to invite her along to the pub. Not that she minds. She’s long past the time she was desperate to fit in.

She takes her equipment back to main morgue. The news is finished and now it’s some stupid talk show, but she leaves it on, just to have some noise in the background. She’s grown used to silence around her, but still. Around the corpses a little noise is always welcome.

He should’ve come to her, Sherlock. She had caught him sneaking around, stealing supplies, but she’d pretended not to see. She's not going to offer, not just like that, not anymore.

If he wants her help, he should ask.

The TV crackles. She looks up.

She freezes.                                          

Then she leans against the doorway, arms wrapped around herself.

She’s still got mace in her purse. Somewhere in a box at home she has the card with Lestrade’s emergency number. She never really forgot.

Her phone rings. She answers without looking at the number. It’ll be unknown, anyway, like last time.

“Yes?” she says. Her voice sounds calm. She’s proud.

“ _Molly Hooper_ ,” he purrs down the phone.

She shivers. How can she not, when he’s…

“I’ve missed you,” he continues, cheerful and charming and something brittle about it, something sharp at the edges. “Fancy dropping ‘round to catch up, get reacquainted?”

“Why?”

He sighs, put-upon. “Do we really need to go over this again?”

“Maybe – ” She swallows, smiles. “Maybe a girl wants to feel like you’re putting in a little effort, Jim.”

He laughs, loud and surprised, and there, that’s it. That’s why she’ll say yes.

“Fine,” he says, voice warm, teasing. “Like I said, I missed you. Your hot little mouth and your clever little fingers and your – ”

“Just in it for the sex, then?”

“Aren’t you?”

“I asked first.”

He chuckles again. “It’s never that simple, Molly Hooper. You of all people should know that. Now, are you coming over?”

She bites her lip, stares at his face on the TV.

 _Liar. Traitor. Slut._

“Alright,” she says. “Where?”

And he laughs.

***

It’s not the flat, this time.

It’s not a hotel room either. The closest thing she can come to a description is _safe house_. A bare room, wallpaper peeling, floor bare concrete, and nothing there but a metal bedframe, a frayed mattress, and a small old TV shoved in a corner.

It shouldn’t fit Jim, Jim with his luxury and beauty and decadence, but it does. Even though he’s still wearing a well-fitting suit and he’s still perfectly put together, hands in his pockets and an easy smile on his lips, there’s something haggard about him, something brittle. As if he’s been broken into pieces and he put himself together again but the cracks are still showing. And his eyes –

Even by his standards they’re scary.

And still she doesn’t hesitate.

“Used to be that you were scared to look at me,” Jim says softly, eyes hungry on her face. “And now, look at you. Grown up, have you, Molly Hooper?”

“Shut up,” she tells him, then tosses her bag and coat in the corner and walks over to him and pulls him into a kiss. He responds immediately, arms around her waist and teeth in her lip and, yes, _this_.

They make their way to the bed, not letting go for one second until her calves hit the bedframe and he pushes her down. The frame squeaks as she drops onto it, then screeches again when Jim goes down on top of her. He grabs her face and kisses her with a sharp focused hunger that she’s never felt in anyone else and she damn well _revels_ in it.

“I slept with Sebastian,” she gasps between kisses, drunk on daring, on transgression. “And Sherlock.”

He laughs. “Molly, you bad girl,” he says, breathless, approval in his voice.

She hooks her leg behind his and turns, twists, and then she’s on top of him. She pulls his shirt open and rests her hands on his chest, feels him breathe, and he holds her hips and smiles something wide and vicious. And he looks at her. 

And he looks at her, and keeps looking at her as she comes, as she screams his name, as she sobs and writhes and fucking begs.

He  _sees_ her.

_***_

“Are you asking?” she asks, eventually.

He looks up at her. She’s sitting up against the headboard, sheets pooled around her waist, making no effort to cover herself. Why should she?

“Maybe,” he says smoothly. “What would you say?”

“That’s not how it works.”

“Well, no, I suppose it isn’t.” He runs his hand over her thigh. “Are you going to betray me then, Molly?”

“Yes.” She looks down at him, head held on one side. “You knew that, did you?”

“Not really.” He folds his hands beneath his head, closes his eyes, smiles. “You’re unpredictable. Part of the reason why I asked you here.”

She doesn’t know why she’s so sure he won’t kill her. There’s certainly no rational reason for it. Gut instinct, maybe, listening to her body instead of her mind for once.

She sits up, swings her leg over his hips. His hands rest on her thighs and her insides give a pleasant little tingle. But...

 _I don’t need you anymore_ , Molly thinks.

Then she leans down and kisses his neck. Just once more, for old times’ sake.

_***_

After – legs wobbly, lip split, skin tingling - she cleans up as much as she can in the bare little room, all the while feeling Jim's eyes on her. She gets dressed, finds her coat and purse, then goes to the door.

Pauses.

And despite her resolve, she looks over her shoulder.

No one ever looked at her like that.  _No one_ . 

He smiles, lazily, as if he knows exactly what's going through her head. Maybe he does. 

But that doesn't matter anymore.

She leaves without another word.

Down in the street she immediately flags down a cab and tells him to take her to the other end of the city.  _Eighteen_ _missed calls_ , her phone announces. And that's not counting the mass of texts clogging up her inbox, and the increasingly frantic voicemail messages.

It's oddly touching, Sherlock's panic. He must’ve thought Moriarty had taken her - but, well, he’s not wrong, is he?

The cab pulls up and she gets out, rings the doorbell. When Sherlock opens the door he actually hugs her in relief, which is a bit of a surprise. 

“Hullo, Sherlock,” she says, smiling.

He grabs her by the shoulders, eyes wild. “Are you - ”

“I'm fine,” she says, calmly.

And, after a deep breath:

“I’ve got something to tell you.”  


***

_She fucks Jim Moriarty on a Sunday afternoon, remembering the first time she did this, the other men she’s had, how scared she used to be. Now, she takes her enjoyment, guilt-free and unconcerned of what people might think of her. So what? Fuck shame. Fuck should. She's her own person._

_She fucks Jim Moriarty because she wants to. That's all._

_And afterwards, she makes her choice._

 


End file.
